


Paint Stained Collar

by freudensteins_monster



Series: MCU Crossovers/Ideas [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), White Collar
Genre: Alternate Universe - Criminals, Alternative Universe - FBI, Art Forgery, Crimes & Criminals, Criminal Consultant!Steve Rogers, Criminal!Steve Rogers, FBI Agent!Bucky Barnes, Gen, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, artist!Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-22
Updated: 2018-08-22
Packaged: 2019-07-01 01:02:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15763413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freudensteins_monster/pseuds/freudensteins_monster
Summary: Steve Rogers, in Agent Barnes’ off-the-record opinion, was not a bad guy. He had just been a kid, working his ass off on a partial fine arts scholarship at Columbia, when his talent for recreating old masters was noticed by the wrong people. The guy had an unwavering moral compass and James believed that if his mother hadn’t gotten sick Steve Rogers would never have fallen into the world of art forgery at all.





	Paint Stained Collar

**Author's Note:**

> I somehow managed to write this while downing cold & flu meds and liberal amounts of chicken soup, which is ridiculously impressive considering how little writing I've been doing whilst healthy. Unbeta'd - All mistakes are mine and the cold virus's fault.

Paint Stained Collar (White Collar AU, possible/eventually Stucky)

 

The repetitive scratching of the worn-down screw against the concrete was almost hypnotic. If he hadn’t been on such a tight schedule Steve could have easily have lost himself in the process. As it was, the moment the cell doors opened he made a few hasty final touches before chucking the screw under his cot and brushed the dust from his hands onto his tired orange jumpsuit. A guard started on the roll call and Steve double checked that his only photo of his mother was in his pocket before stepping out of his cell just as his name was called, and then it was off to the mess hall for what was hopefully going to be his last breakfast of powered eggs and cold toast.

He moved his food around and tried not to be too obvious about tracking the guard’s movements, making sure they were all sticking to the same schedule as yesterday, and the day before that. He also paid attention to his fellow inmates, gauging each group’s current temperament and whether he could expect any trouble from anyone today. Thankfully he was still invisible to anyone of concern, as he had been since his main tormentor, Rumlow, had been sent to Maximum Security, the guards finally acting the third time he put Steve in the Infirmary.  

An unsuspicious amount of time later Steve dumped his food tray and headed for the east block security check point. He waited there with the rest of the cleaning crew inmates for the supervising guard to let them all through and escort them to the cleaning supplies storage room. Steve filled up his mop and bucket and headed off to his section, working his way towards the clear barriers next to the guard station and, more importantly, the visitors waiting area.

Twenty of the longest minutes of Steve’s life later he glanced up and easily spied his friend amongst the visitors thanks to his trademark purple t-shirt. He winced as he tapped the side of this nose (the damn thing was broken again), the signal for “Operation: Free Bird is a go”. Steve took a deep breath and put his part of the plan into action.

“Finished that section. Going for a refill then heading for the other corridor,” Steve said as he passed the supervising guard. The man grunted a reply, barely looking up from his phone to acknowledge the inmate. 

 _Good_ , thought Steve. The guard could be relied upon to be engrossed with his phone until it was time to lock up the supply room, which would give Steve approximately 15 minutes before his absence was noticed. He entered the supply room and abandoned his mop and bucket next to the others, making straight for vent in the back corner of the room. As planned, the vent cover was now unscrewed and it was simply a matter of Steve climbing the rickety shelving unit and pulling himself up into the ventilation shaft opening… eight feet off the friggin ground. 

A few prayers and a lot of muttered cursing later Steve fell into the ventilation shaft, reaching for the respirator mask that had been so thoughtfully left for him – _thank you, Clint -_ before he copped a lungful of the mould and dust that coated the metal walls. Also left behind for him was a small, plastic, keychain-sized torch and a much folded piece of paper, with a crude map of the ventilation system and a handy red line between “You Are Here” and “X” drawn on it.

Ten minutes and only one wrong turn later Steve found the duffle bag waiting for him at the exit point. He checked everything was all clear before dropping down into a cubicle in the visitor’s toilets, balancing precariously on a dividing wall before climbing down, the vent cover clapping softly shut behind him thanks to hinge Clint had managed to attach to it.  

Five minutes later a skinny hipster in clothes two sizes too big for him exited the toilets and took a seat in the waiting area. The guy in the purple shirt was nowhere to be seen.

Two minutes after that, just as an inmate’s absence was being reported by a sheepish guard, two cameras at the opposite end of the compound lost visual and all hell broke loose. The skinny hipster was evacuated with the rest grumbling visitors and headed for the nearest road, a friendly guy in a purple shirt soon pulled up alongside him and offered him a ride back to Brooklyn.

** *** **

Special Agent James Barnes of New York’s White Collar Crime Unit was pacing outside what was, until very recently, the site of a boiler room with ties – _allegedly_ – to the untouchable Alexander Pierce when Probational Agent Lewis approached him.

“Boss?”

“The place has been cleared out. Just like last time,” James spat. “Pierce has got to have someone on the inside,” he added lowly. “That’s the only thing that makes sense. The team got here not even half an hour after the warrant was issued and the place was empty. Not a single computer or friggin headset was left behind. They took everything but the goddamned light bulbs.”

He stopped pacing and stared at his usually talkative junior agent. She was shifting awkwardly, her phone held out to him.

“What is it?”

“Steve Rogers escaped.”

“What?!”

** *** **

James arrived at the prison and had to let rip with a high pitched whistle to announce himself over the bickering of the warden and the US Marshal in charge.

“Agent Barnes, FBI,” he said, flashing his badge and a smile.

“You’re the one who caught Rogers the first time?” the warden asked, almost reaching out to him in desperation.

“‘Caught’ might be a stretch,” he shrugged. “I brought him in. He’s not really the 'on the run’ type.”

“He is now,” the gruff marshal said gruffly.

“Let’s figure out why, shall we?”

James followed the warden to Rogers’ cell while the marshal peeled off muttering something about roadblocks and hen houses.

“I don’t understand it,” the warden fretted. “Rogers has been a model prisoner. Followed instruction, always polite, never caused any problems… He was up for parole next month.”

Something in the warden’s inflection caught James’ attention.

“Did he _have_ any problems?”

“He was one of the smallest guys here,” the warden shrugged like it explained everything. “He held his own, but there was this one inmate, Rumlow, who had it out for him. Despite being a raging psychopath he was careful and the guards only caught him in the act last month. Rogers was in the infirmary for a week.”

“That’s reason enough to want to escape.”

The warden shook his head. “That was Rumlow’s first and last strike. He was sent up to Sing Sing after that. Don’t know how he wound up in minimum security in the first place.”

“Good lawyer, probably,” James mused, stopping short as they reached Rogers’ cell. “Holy shit…”

Etched into the wall opposite the cot was a replica of “The Girl with a Pearl Earring”, if the girl had been a fifty year old kemo patient.

“He’s quite the artist. Had a good business going, trading tattoos for food or books…”

James tore his eyes away from the art on the walls looked around the small cell. The bed was neatly made and the shelf above the small desk in the corner was piled high with ramen and chocolate bars. The desk itself was littered with drawings and the remnants of cheap pastels. He rifled through the pages - character studies of guards and inmates mostly - until he found the catalyst. He passed the eviction notice over to the warden.

“We’ve got the why, now the how.”

“I don’t understand,” the warden griped, struggling to keep up with Barnes as he made his way back to the guard station.

“He was getting kicked out of his apartment.”

“But he wasn’t living there…”

“He was keeping up with the rent payments somehow. The landlord must have only just cottoned on to the fact that Steve’s not around anymore and terminated the rental agreement. He has until tomorrow to clear out his stuff.”

“You think he hid something valuable in the apartment?”

“Depends what you mean by valuable,” James replied cryptically as they reached the security check point, nodding to the guards to let them through.

 

“Here’s Rogers,” the guard said, pointing to the blond on the monitor as he exited the mess hall. The security footage sped through the rest of the morning until… “He goes into the supply room, and never comes back out.”

“Keep going until the guard notices he’s missing.”

James didn’t say a word about the idiot guard with his eyes glued to his phone; word had it he was getting fired just as soon as the marshals were done chewing him out.

His eyes flicked to the two camera angles that went dark around about the time the guard realised Rogers’ was MIA.

“What happened there?”

“They were shot out.”

“Shot?”

“With a bow and arrow,” the warden added in the dazed tone of a man mentally drafting his resignation letter. “But we’ve checked the area. There’s no signs of a breakout. And even if there were it couldn’t have been Rogers. He can’t have gotten to that side of the compound without passing through three security check points. Especially not without leaving the storage room first!” the warden reasoned desperately.

“So it’s a distraction. Too coincidental to be completely unrelated,” James countered. “Show me just the cameras from this block. From the moment Rogers walks into the storage room until the place goes on lockdown. … There!” he exclaims, jabbing a finger at a flash of blonde hair. “That’s how he got out: he walked out the front door.”

“But that… that’s just a visitor. Isn’t it?”

James flicked an irritated look at the frazzled warden before turning back to the security footage. “Blow that angle up. Play it again.” On a full screen it was obvious that it was Rogers but apparently the hipster glasses were enough to give the warden reasonable doubt. “Rewind it,” James asked irritably. “Show me when he goes into the bathroom.”

The tape went back and back and back and the moment never came. He gave the warden a non-verbal “I told you so” and made for the visitors bathrooms. He gave the dreary tiled room a once over and didn’t see any obvious entry points, no Shawshank-style holes in the wall, but maybe…

“Give me your baton,” he asked of the guard trailing behind the warden (in case he passed out from stress, James assumed). He extended it with a flick of his wrist and stood atop the last toilet in the row, using the baton to reach up to the air vent cover… And wouldn’t you know it, the damn thing was unscrewed.

“That’s not possible,” the warden scoffed. “It’s not possible. It’s too small! No one could fit in there!”

“No one our size, perhaps, but Rogers is, what? A foot shorter and a hundred pounds soaking wet? A guy that size would have plenty of wiggle room.”

The warden was still clinging to his righteous indignation when James moved to the waste bin and dug out a black duffle bag from under the used paper towels. He pulled an orange jumpsuit from the bag and handed the whole thing over.

“I’d fix those vents if I were you.”

“Where are you going?”

“To find him.”

** *** **

Steve Rogers, in Agent Barnes’ off-the-record opinion, was not a bad guy. He had just been a kid, working his ass off on a partial fine arts scholarship at Columbia, when his talent for recreating old masters was noticed by the wrong people. The guy had an unwavering moral compass and James believed that if his mother hadn’t gotten sick Steve Rogers would never have fallen into the world of art forgery. He was sure Steve had told himself it would just be the one time, but then his mom got sicker and the bills kept coming, so he allowed himself to be commissioned for another forgery, and another. And then Sarah Rogers had died and Steve’s true north died with her. By the time Steve was able to drag himself out of his depression the funeral bills had been added to his pile of debt, the rent was due, and he had a pressing need to eat some time that week. He buckled.

Three years later and Steve was forging everything from “lost works” from old masters to bearer bonds from the forties. He was probably one of the best forgers James had never heard of, until some snivelling yuppie who had been laundering drug money through his art gallery had dropped Steve’s name and crimes in the hopes of reducing his own sentence.

James had gone to Steve Rogers’ home himself to ask him a few questions, get a feel for the guy, but the moment the skinny little artist had seen James’ badge his shoulders had slumped; he knew he was nicked and he wasn’t going to fight it. He did however only do the bare minimum to cooperate with their investigation and didn’t implicate himself in any crimes the Bureau wasn’t currently aware of. He did suggest he wouldn’t be of much help with the crimes they could trace back to him, admitting that all of his jobs were brought to him by an agent of sorts and he never had any contact with the people who bought his work. If he accepted a job he’d give the agent a list of supplies he’d need to pull it off and by the end of the next day they be delivered to his doorstop and he’d get to work. He claimed not to know their name, only communicating via a burner phone that his agents conveniently couldn’t find when they searched his place.

James pulled up at the aforementioned place, an unremarkable apartment building in a corner of Brooklyn that had scared off the forces of gentrification. Back up pulled up a few seconds later and he motioned for them to stay outside and watch the exits. Steve Rogers wasn’t armed or dangerous, and James had a feeling he wouldn’t run.

The elevator was broken again, or still broken from his last visit, so James hoofed it up four flights of stairs to the former residence of Steve and Sarah Rogers. The lock had been jimmied and the smell of fresh paint almost knocked him on his ass as he pushed the door open. It was a small apartment, just two bedrooms, one bathroom, and a cramped “open plan” kitchen/dining/living area, though it seemed less cramped now that it was completely devoid of furniture.

James sighed and checked the bedrooms, and found Steve sitting on the floor of what James remembered as Sarah Rogers’ untouched bedroom.

“Hey Steve,” he called softly from the doorway. “What happened?”

“The bastard lied. He sent the eviction notice to cover his ass but he didn’t even think I’d get it so why wait the full 14 days? He threw everything out two days ago. Now this is all I have left of her,” he cried, holding up the creased photo of his mother.

“I’m sorry, Steve.”

James gave him as much time as he could before helping him to his feet and escorting him from the building. Handing Steve over to the marshals was one of the harder things he’d had to do in his line of work and his broken expression kept James up all night. Not that he told Darcy that when she commented on the bags under his eyes the next morning.

“Where are we on the boiler room?” he said instead, taking the proffered coffee.

“Nowhere,” Darcy grumbled. “Forensics pulled a few partials but they’re not confident they’ll be enough for a match. Fury’s given the file to me to chase down some leads that won’t go anywhere.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because,” she said, brandishing a new file with a smile. “You have something more important to look into: the Ghost might be back.”

The Ghost was called the Ghost because they never left any evidence other than an empty space where a priceless work of art once sat. In the past two years the Ghost had been credited with five high profile thefts, and if the file in front of him was to believed that number was now six. James sighed and tried to savour his coffee. Art Crimes wasn’t exactly his forte, he was a forensic accountant at heart - give him a good embezzlement case and he was happy. But Art Crimes? He’d never quite understood the value and status (rich) people put on it, nor had he been able to, in the five years he’d been an agent, find a reliable CI in that world to give him a leg up.

_Maybe Steve knew someone, maybe Steve…_

An idea took hold and James threw himself into research, coffee and potential Ghost case all but forgotten.

** *** **

Steve put on a brave face and smiled as James entered the interview room.

“Good morning, Agent Barnes. What brings you here?”

“I wanted to talk you about your parole.”

“Uh, you’re a little late,” Steve chuckled. “The hearing was cancelled on account of my little… furlough.”

“No, I heard about that. I had a little something a little different in mind.”

“Like what?”

“Have you ever heard of Frank Abagnale Jr?”

“The conman they made that DiCaprio movie about?”

“The conman that became an FBI consultant,” James supplied. “I was wondering if that was something you would be interested in.” He smiled as the man across from him did a pretty good impression of a fish. “If you agree you’ll be fitted with a tracking device and be released into my custody. You’d be given room and board – nothing much, I’m warning you now – and serve your sentence consulting on cases instead sitting in a prison cell.”

“ _If_ I agree?” Steve laughed. “But why me? I was just a forger.”

“I think you’re selling yourself a bit short there, Rogers. I know for a fact that you were holding out on us when you were arrested, you know a hell of a lot more than you let on, and you’ve got connections in that world which sometimes feels like it’s half the job. So… what do you say?”

Steve smiled. “When can I start?”

** *** **

James smiled as he saw Steve kiss the dog tags and wedding ring that hung from a chain around his neck for the fifth time on their drive back to the city.

“I’m glad you got your personal effects back, Steve.”

“Me too. It’s not much but it’s a hell of a lot better than nothing,” he sighed, relinquishing his hold on them in favour of fidgeting with his new watch-slash-tracking device. “Did they have to make this thing so bulky?”

“Count yourself lucky it’s in standard issue black. I had to talk the guy down from making it in his trademark red and gold.”

“Red and gold? This is a Stark?!”

“Yeah, my boss insisted on something unhackable before agreeing to let you out into the world, and Stark owed me a favour after I solved a patent issue he was having.”

“I feel both honoured and insulted. It’s like your boss doesn’t trust me.”

“Oh, he doesn’t. But don’t take it personally; Fury doesn’t trust anyone.”

James double checked his GPS, took the next right, and pulled up in front of a rundown motel with several letters missing from its flickering neon sign.

“Here we are, home sweet home.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Steve muttered as he followed James into the dingy lobby.

“Agent Barnes,” James flashed his badge at the attendant. “This is Steve Rogers, my office called earlier.”

“Right, right,” the (possibly high) attendant murmured. “There you, Snake Eyes,” he said, tossing the keys in Steve’s general direction.

Steve stared at the keys where they landed on the dirty ground and pleaded with James. “Do I have to stay here? Prison was cleaner. And probably safer,” he added in quiet tones, eyeing the residents loitering in the lobby warily. 

“I warned you it wasn’t going to be much,” James reminded him. “It costs 700 a month to house you on the inside, so that's what it costs here. For the money, this is as good as it gets. You find something better - take it. In the meantime, get settled in, do your homework,” he added, passing Steve a few files, “And I’ll pick you up at 7am.”

“What about clothes – or toiletries? I’m wearing my entire wardrobe,” Steve argued, tugging at his threadbare shirt.

“Your tracking anklet is set up so you can go anywhere within two miles of this place. Find a thrift store.”

“And pay for it with what money?”

“Oh, almost forgot. Here,” he said, handing over a fifty dollar bill. “That’s your weekly allowance. That’s how much it costs on the inside,” he repeated before Steve could argue. “If you need anything extra I’ll show you how to fill out a requisition form tomorrow. Until then: homework, two miles, 7 am. Got it?”

“Yeah, yeah…”

** *** **

Steve lasted a whole two minutes in the possibly haunted motel room before walking straight back out again. He splurged on his first decent cup of coffee in almost a year and found a bench in a nearby park to sit and read the files Agent Barnes had given him while the light was still good. After that he wasn’t sure what he was going to do, only that it involved not sleeping in a room that looked like it hadn’t been cleaned properly anytime in the past decade.

He was almost at the bottom of his coffee when something caught his attention; an elderly woman in her eighties, maybe even nineties, clinging to her purse like a life raft, her expression changing from confused to sheer panic at an alarming rate.

“Ma’am, are you ok?” Steve asked, stepping into her field of vision. “Are you alright?” he repeated when she finally registered his presence.

“I’m afraid I’m a bit lost,” she confessed with shaky voice and just the hint of an English accent.

“Why don’t you come sit next to me and maybe I can help you find your way.”

“Aren’t you a nice young man,” she remarked as she allowed him to lead her to the bench.

“Do you remember where you were going?”

“I think… I think I wasn’t supposed to go anywhere,” she admitted bashfully. “I was with my niece and she stopped to take a phone call and I’m afraid I must have wandered off. She’s going to be ever so cross with me.”

“It’s not your fault,” Steve assured her.

“No, it’s this mind of mine, betraying me in my old age,” she tutted. “And it’s got me quite forgetting my manners. Agent Margaret Carter, formerly of her Majesty’s armed forces and Churchill’s S.O.E. But you can call me Peggy.”

“Wait a minute, the S.O.E.? You were a spy?” Steve exclaimed, happy he retained something from his WWII studies.

“Spy, codebreaker, kicker of Nazi asses,” she grinned back. “And who might you be, other than the kind of man who helps little old ladies cross the street?” she teased.

“Oh, uh, Steve Rogers, ma’am. Recently paroled art forger turned consultant for the FBI,” he answered truthfully, returning her firm handshake.

“A forger? Really?” she beamed. “You must be quite talented. You’ll have to paint my portrait for me.”

Steve blushed but before he could answer her a frantic younger woman ran up to them.

“Aunt Peggy! I thought I lost you!” she cried, almost falling to her knees in relief.

“I think it was me who lost you, dear. Steve, this is my niece, Sharon. Sharon, this is Steve, the young man that has been keeping me company while we waited for you.”

“Thank you so much,” Sharon greeted breathlessly, still trying to get her racing heart under control.

“It wasn’t a hardship. You’re aunt’s a real firecracker.”

“Oh you,” Peggy blushed, slapping Steve’s arm. “Steve here is an artist. I was just in the process of commissioning him to paint my portrait, something dark and austere to loom over everyone at family dinners long after I’m gone,” she laughed.

“That sounds great, Aunt Peg. Have you got a card?”

“Oh, no, sorry. Uh, I don’t even have a phone at the moment.”

Sharon raised an eyebrow at his admission but Peggy steamrolled over any awkwardness.

“It’s not the boy’s fault, Sharon dear. He’s just been released from prison, but now he’s working for the FBI, isn’t that exciting?”

Sharon raised both eyebrows.

“Art forger… turned consultant…” Steve repeated self-consciously.

Her eyes flicked to him the files at his side.

“Are those case files?”

“Uh, yes?”

“Can I see them?”

“Um… no?” It wasn’t like they had [Top Secret] stamped all over it, and James hadn’t mentioned anything about confidentiality, but maybe that’s because it went without saying. “Give me a break,” he said in answer to Sharon’s razor sharp gaze. “It’s my first day isn’t until tomorrow.”

“Who’s your liaison?”

“…Special Agent James Barnes. Why?”

Instead of responding Sharon turned her attention to her phone, tapping away until she found the answers she needed.

“Steven Grant Rogers, twenty six years old, convicted of one count of felony forgery though implicated in at least a dozen other cases. Non-violent offender, served 11 months on a four year sentence before escaping only to be captured that same day and released into the custody of Special Agent James Barnes. Currently residing… at the Heart of the City Motel. Seriously? That place is a dump.”

“Yeah, it is, but… How… How did you know all that?” Steve asked dazedly, pointing to her phone.

“Classified,” she smirked.

“My dear Sharon has followed in my footsteps somewhat. She works in Washington,” Peggy supplied with an exaggerated wink, earning an amused snort from her niece. “And that agent of yours doesn’t really expect you to live at that awful motel, does he? That place should have been condemned when Sharon was a girl.”

“According to the Bureau, it cost 700 a month to house me on the inside, so that's all they’ve budgeted for my room and board on the outside. Agent Barnes said if I could find something better for the same money I should take it, but in this city?” Steve scoffed.

“Why don’t you come stay with me?”

“Aunt Peg,” Sharon scolded.

“You said it yourself, dear. Your work is in Washington, and though you visit as often as you can you still worry about me being all alone in that big house once Anna leaves for the day.”

“I really couldn’t…”

“And you,” she said, turning to Steve. “You said you’d paint my portrait. I could be your patron, how marvellous,” she grinned.

Steve couldn’t bring himself to say no to Peggy’s enthusiastic generosity, instead he looked to Sharon to give him out by deeming him an unsuitable houseguest by rap sheet alone, but it seemed she wasn’t immune to her aunt’s enthusiasm either.

“Fine. But if you hurt her in any way, shape, or form, you won’t have to worry about going back to prison because you’ll be dead. Do we understand each other?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he nodded, knowing it wasn’t hyperbole in the least.

“That settles it,” Peggy clapped. “Rent can be due on the first of every month and meals are served at 7am, 12pm, and 5pm, Monday through Friday. Though we’ll be left to our own devices for lunch and dinner on weekends until Anna’s daughter stops working nightshift and no longer needs a babysitter. Any questions?”

“Uh, just one,” Steve replied, holding up his tracking bracelet. “Is your place within a two mile radius of the motel?”

** *** **

Steve parted ways with the Carter’s and wandered back to the awful motel in a giddy daze.

“Hey Snake Eyes,” the attendant greeted. “What can I do you for?”

“Checking out,” Steve grinned, dropping the keys into his hand.

“So soon?”

“Yep. You got paper and a pen? I need to leave a note for that guy that dropped me off.”

“Secret Agent Man?” he asked, passing over the required items.

“That’s the one,” Steve murmured as he crafted his note. “Give this to him when he turns up tomorrow morning?”

“Sure thing. Hey, that reminds me,” he said to Steve’s retreating back. “Someone left something for you,” he said, looking around his small station until he found a familiar brand of black duffel bag. “Left you a note too.”

 _“To: Cap,”_ it read in Clint’s familiar scrawl. _“Sorry about your stuff. Went dumpster diving behind your building and got some of it back. x Hawkeye”_

Steve took the bag and frantically rifled through the smelly contents. It was mostly clothes, some coffee mugs and books, and a few precious framed photos that Steve wasn’t ashamed to say he hugged to his chest.

 

A few hours later he was settled in his new digs, a guest apartment in Peggy’s townhouse, complete with an ensuite and its own kitchenette. Steve had spent the better part of an hour following dinner with the delightful Peggy getting better acquainted with said ensuite, swearing to himself he was never going back to prison, and prison showers, ever again. When he finally exited the bathroom, wearing only “guest pyjama” bottoms as his entire wardrobe was in the washing machine downstairs, he almost shrieked at the sight of a woman perched at the end of his bed.

“Hello Steve,” she purred.

“Jesus Christ, Nat,” he swore at the redhead. “You almost gave me a heart attack,” he gasped, leaning against the wall for support.

“Not going to ask stupid questions like ‘How did you find me?’” she teased, moving in for a hug.

“I know better than that. I would ask that you don’t make this a habit though. Peggy’s niece is kinda your level of intimidating.”

“I’m aware,” she smirked knowingly. “So, how’s life on the outside treating you,” she asked, rummaging around his fridge for something to drink and finding only random craft beers and bottled water.

Steve gestured at his comfortable surroundings. “I think my luck’s turning around.”

“All you had to do was sell your soul to the feds,” she grimaced, flicking the bottle cap into the sink.

“It’s not like that, Nat.”

“Isn’t it?”

“I’ve got a lot to make up for.”

“You painted a few pictures, Steve.”

“And forged bonds and stock certificates, and a goddamn printing plate. Nat, I did the wrong thing over and over again. I broke laws, committed crimes, and even if the feds aren’t aware of all of them I’m going to atone for them. This is how.”

“Even if it means ratting out your friends?”

“Hey, I would never. I say a word about you then, I won’t now.”

“So you’ll just lie to your FBI handler?”

“I don’t have to lie. I can just be vague and obtuse. Agent Barnes knows I’m not telling him everything and he seems to accept it.”

“Until a case I’m involved in comes across your desk.”

“I’d go back to prison before ratting you out, Nat. You have to believe that.”

“I do, that’s the problem,” she smiled sadly. “You went to prison the first time because of me, I won’t let you do it again.”

“That wasn’t your fault…”

“It was,” Nat argued. “I got you into all this in the first place. My uncle saw that Degas you painted for my birthday and he kept pushing the idea of that first job, asking me to ask you…”

“I didn’t have to say yes.”

“You were desperate. I took advantage.”

“And what about those last few years, after all my debts were paid… Was I still desperate then?” Nat sighed and picked at the label on her water bottle. “It was my choice, Nat. The guilt should be mine too.”

“And yet I still feel like an asshole, so I’m going to make it easy for you: I’m going to take a holiday.”

“For how long?”

“Four years. Two with good behaviour,” she smiled, abandoning her drink in favour of another hug. “Look after yourself, Rogers.”

“You too, Romanoff. And hey,” he called as she made for the door. “Take Clint with you, would you?”

“Who do you think’s flying the plane?” she teased and disappeared from sight.

Steve’s heart broke a little bit at the thought of his friends being out of the country for four years – because of him. But it wasn’t that long in the grand scheme of things, he reasoned, and worst case scenario they’d be back for his 30th birthday, and what a party that was going to be.

** *** **

James read over Steve’s note, and the obnoxious little smiley face tacked on the end, and prayed to his mother’s god that busting this kid out of jail wasn’t going to end up being the worst mistake of his career. He checked the address again and knocked on the fancy front door.

“Good morning, I’m Special Agent Barnes,” he greeted, flashing his badge as was habit. “Is there a Steve Rogers at this address?”

The woman smiled warmly and waved him through.

“Good morning Special Agent Barnes. My name is Anna Jarvis, I’m Ms Carter’s housekeeper. She and Mr Rogers are taking breakfast in the main dining room.”

“Of course they are,” James muttered to himself as he followed Anna through the lavish home.

“Agent Barnes!” Steve grinned contagiously. “You’re early.”

“You moved,” he countered, staring around the opulent room in disbelief.

“Yeah, it's nicer than the other place, don't you think?”

“I don’t think the other place served breakfast. How…”

“Well, while taking advantage of the generous freedom you gave me I went to the park yesterday afternoon and bumped into Peggy here,” Steve explained, enjoying James’ awkwardness immensely.  At the mention of her name Peggy dragged herself away from her morning crossword. “Peg, this is James Barnes, the FBI guy I was telling you about. Agent Barnes, this is Agent Margaret “Peggy” Carter, formerly of her Majesty’s armed forces and Churchill’s S.O.E, and my generous patron to boot.”

“Isn’t he a riot,” Peggy laughed.

“He’s something alright,” James agreed. “Steve, why don’t you go get dressed. We’ve got a busy day ahead of us.”

“Will do. Thanks for breakfast, Anna. Have a wonderful day, Peg.”

“You too, dear,” Peggy waved.

James fell down in an open chair and graciously accepted the cup of coffee Anna poured for him. The drink helped him gather his wits and he turned to address the elderly woman at the head of the table.

“It’s very nice of you to put Steve up, Ms Carter, but he did disclose to you that he’s a convicted felon, didn’t he? And that that thing on his wrist isn’t just a watch.”

“Young man,” Peggy replied sharply. “I was hunting down Nazi’s before your father was even thought of; I know what bad men look like, and Steve Rogers is not one of them.”

“No, ma’am, he isn’t,” James conceded.

** *** **

James was waiting by the car when Steve finally emerged, dressed in clean dark jeans, a loose fitting t-shirt, and a comfy looking button up sweater that wouldn’t have looked out of place in Peggy’s wardrobe.

“Ready to go?”

“Yeah, yeah, hold your horses.”

“First day on the job and you’re already late,” James grumbled as he got behind the wheel.

“Hey, you were early,” Steve shot back.

“You read the files?”

“Yep,” Steve said, handing them back.

“And?”

“The Bourke and the Jones jobs feel like insurance fraud to me, the Bourke especially. I’d put money on the painting that was displayed being a fake. The brushstrokes looked all wrong to me. The Caffrey was definitely an inside job. I’d look for an employee, or a close relative of an employee, who’s got gambling debts with a guy named Berrigan. He’s got a soft spot for post-war abstracts, Rothko’s in particular. The other three… they could very well be the same guy but I’d like to check out the most recent crime scene before committing to that theory.”

“…You know what, Steve?”

“What?” Steve asked.

“I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> \- James dropped the nickname Bucky when he went to Quanitco in an effort to be taken more seriously. Steve finds out about it from Darcy, ala Diana telling Neal about Peter's mustache.  
> \- Darcy and Sam would be James' main underlings.  
> \- James often thinks of Steve as "kid" though he's 26 and Bucky's barely pushing 30.  
> \- Clint/Nat are Steve's Mozzie but as Steve is completely different to Neal - no ulterior motives, no big secrets, etc - it seemed right to have them step back from Steve so he wasn't found breaking parole for consorting with criminals, and Steve wasn't torn apart by guilt for covering for his friends/lying to James about their involvement in open cases.  
> \- Steve and Clint met as they tried to pass each other in some random alleyway in Brooklyn, both bloody and bruised, when they were still in high school and have been close friends ever since. Steve met Nat in college though he wasn't aware that she was slightly mobbed up until she brought him his first "commission".  
> \- I do say the the vent was too small for guys Bucky's size but okay for Steve - so what about Clint? Apparently Clint+ceiling vents in a fanmade trope, and I had no idea, so let's just say that Clint is bigger than Steve but smaller than Bucky and since he's so accustomed to ceiling ducts it might have been a tight fit but completely doable for him.  
> \- Steve may have told himself what he was doing wasn't hurting anyone there would have to be an ep where he discovers how his actions ruined someone's life, etc.  
> \- Rumlow would come back as Steve's nemesis/hired muscle for Alexander Peirce.


End file.
